


the years of my life and hours of my love

by littlemiss_m



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Multi, OT4, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-11-15 01:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18063617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: The day Gladio turns nineteen, he is alone; on Ignis' turn, they find each other. On Noctis' nineteenth birthday, two become three, and on Prompto's birthday, they so remain.(In which no-one thinks to question the date printed on Prompto's adoption forms, and all come to suffer for it.)





	1. stroke of midnight, part I

The night before Gladio's nineteenth birthday, he lays in bed with his wrists held above his face, his eyes studying the tanned planes of his skin and the pattern of the veins below. He knows his arms: the gradient blue of his veins where they surge closer to the surface only to escape from view once more, the sinews bulging against the skin with every twitch of his muscles, the little mole where wrist becomes palm. He knows his tattoos, the stretches of bare skin at the tips of the eagle's feathers, left paintless so that one day, a mark of another kind may fill in the blanks.

He knows his arms, but – here the giddily dancing butterflies in Gladio's stomach all barrel at his throat – tomorrow, it may all change.

The odds are not quite fifty-fifty, not when there are groups of threes or fours and very, _very_ rarely, even of fives, but – either he will have his soulmate mark, or he will not. Someone will always be the older half of the equation, a fact Gladio has been silently repeating for days under the growing pressure of the approaching morning; someone will always come first, and thus be resigned to waiting.

It takes hours before the electrified anticipation leaves his buzzing mind. Normally, Gladio is a man who falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow, but tonight sleep eludes him. Eyes closed, face smushed into the fluff of his pillow, he thinks of the faceless, nameless shape that will one day become his soulmate, the person who will fill the missing holes in his heart. He thinks of the pre-scripted framework of his life and sees it all slotting together, a shadowy silhouette at his side as seasons change, as years continue rolling, as he grows older and takes on more duties, as his heir is brought to the world one way or another – and maybe he feels a little guilt over it too, because it is his life which will rewrite his soulmate's life, but he can't be upset. Not yet. Not tonight. Not when the chances of his wait being over are as good as fifty-fifty.

* * *

Morning comes as a shock. One moment he's asleep, then suddenly he's not, and as soon as the fact that he is now awake registers in Gladio's mind, he's rolling over and blinking against the early-morning haze of orange sunlight pooling into his room and painting shadows on the planes of his wrists when he brings them up.

They remain bare.

It takes less than a second for him to see his skin still unmarked, but a dozen more before he can begin to accept it. Disappointment tastes like ash in his mouth as he turns his wrists over, then over again, then over once more, his stomach plummeting when his desperate gaze still finds nothing. A heavy sigh in his throat, Gladio lets his arms flop against the blankets bundled at his waist. The ceiling has no answers for him.

Minutes pass. Sleep has long since lost its grasp on him, yet to get up is a feat far past Gladio's current state of being. His body is a lump that simply exists, soft and motionless like a machine left on sleep mode, but his mind – he doesn't want to face the disappointment of the day. Once he gets up, he'll have to walk downstairs and explain to both Clarus and Iris his markless skin, then Ignis and Noctis as well, and Regis and Cor and Jared and all the random people and acquintances he'll be running into along the day. Gladio can taste disappointment, can see his father's eyes, can hear the comments he knows he'll get – ”well, someone is always the oldest one” – and just – does not want to do it.

In the end, he has no choise. His eyes and fingers keep on reaching for his wrists as he gets up washes his face scrubs his teeth finds some clothes to wear, a routine of actions he mindlessly glides through on this morning, the dawn of his nineteenth year, the dawn of yet another unmarked day and the onset of another period of waiting.

Downstairs, Clarus is in the kitchen. Gladio smells the bacon and the sizzling eggs long before he makes his way through the ancient maze of criss-crossing corridors, and when he sees the waffle irons and the massive bowl of golden batter, he's not surprised in the least. Clarus' eyes finds him mere seconds later and Gladio has to look elsewhere, has to find the floor and the walls and the ceiling because he already saw the question, which already prompted more than a little discomfort, which just has him gritting his teeth while trying to pretend he's not doing it–

”Well, someone's always got to be the oldest one,” his dad says, and Gladio nearly throws his head back in mocking laughter. ”Though I'd wait till tomorrow morning just to be sure – you were born so close to the midnight you're certainly in the gray zone.”

The first waffle iron sizzles when Clarus pours in the batter, and the sound is just enough to hide Gladio's irritated, frustrated, disappointed harrumph. Just as everyone else who has even the most basic idea of how the society functions, he knows that the first and last minutes of the day are a hazy gradient slipping from one day to the other with little sense or logic, yet – he also knows that this is not the case for him, that though he will, one day, have his soulmate – unless he is the younger one and they a dead person – he knows the marks will not come today, or tomorrow, or the day after.

”Happy birthday, son,” Clarus comments from where he's stepping between the waffle irons and the frying pans on the stove. ”Have a seat; the food'll be done in a moment, and from the sounds of it, your sister is on her way as well.”

Despite it all, Gladio cracks a smile at the mention of Iris and the thundering footsteps rapidly approaching the little nook of a kitchen. Though he sits down with his back to the doorway, he can see the scene of her arrival in the eyes of his mind; the way her feet slide into a long halt, the eager expression on her face. Then, just as he turns his head to receive her with a wry grin, she dashes across the floor to cling to his arm, eyes like twin stars under the dark fringe of her hair.

”Gladdy–” is all she manages before Gladio shakes his head, still so lost that the mere idea of straightening his slumped shoulders feels like an impossibility.

”Sorry, Mogs,” he tries to smile, carefully trying to shake off her hands where they still dig into his arm. ”Not today.”

Iris pouts, whines, leans back until all her weight rests on Gladio's arm. ”Aww! But it's your birthday!”

”So it is,” Gladio agrees, and because there's nothing else he can think off, he adds, ”shouldn't you have something for me?”

The little wrinkles that appear next to Iris' nose when she huffs are probably the cutest thing Gladio has ever seen, and a wild grin on his lips, he crooks his fingers and reaches for it. This is what it takes for Iris to finally let go, to hop backwards out of Gladio's impressive reach, where she pouts and sneers and presses her hands to her hips in the very image of an insulted little girl.

”Maybe you don't _deserve_ anything,” she teases, bouncing on the glitter-speckled socks on her feet, and a sudden wave of fondness takes Gladio by surprise. ”Maybe you're a _bad_ brother.”

”Uh-huh, sure thing, Mogs.” Gladio grins and wiggles his fingers in her direction. ”Now _gimme_.”

With one last roll of her laughing eyes, Iris pushes a hand into the front pocket of her hoodie – heavy and bulging in a very telling fashion – and pulls out a card, which she then hands over with a flourish and a cheery ”tah-da!” that has Gladio grinning brighter, warmer, and Clarus snorting as he lays the first two waffles on the table. The card is hand-drawn, pink cardboard and metal-shiny gel pens around stickers and stamps in the shapes of hearts, and Gladio loves it already.

”Thanks,” he says, smiling wide like a fool, ”gonna stick it inside my locker at the Citadel, give the other guys yet another reason to be jealous of me.”

Iris is giggling to herself when she carefully loosens the too-big parcel from the confines of her hoodie. ”Here,” she chirps, stepping forward to first drop the present on the table by Gladio's waffle – now joined by a plate of eggs and bacon – and then to press a sloppy kiss high on his cheek. ”Happy birthday, Gladdy!”

He doesn't have his soulmate yet. Chances are that he will have them, one day, sooner or later but nearly inevitably all the same; the numbers are on his side. Gladio knows this, yet – in his bones, the disappointment sleeps, awaiting for the moment his thoughts leave the breakfast and the present and the promise of a secret party he can anticipate despite having heard a very exact zero words of its planning, and – he cannot wait. He can't wait both in the sense that he wants his soulmate in his arms now, on this very burning second, but also in the sense that the mere thought of the undefined stretch of time between now and then is enough to fill him with hopeless dread.

Gladio knows it's a matter of time, most likely. It doesn't make it any much easier.


	2. rising dawn

The mark on the inside of Ignis' right wrist is large; so large he can make out all of it even before he's had the chance to put on his glasses. The lenses in their metallic frame do little to enhance the sight before him, and Ignis isn't sure if he feels disappointment or relief that the lines of it appear solid and unwavering even in his natural state.

His soulmark.

It's a rectangle, not quite the size of his hand, but almost. Thick, black lines form first the outer edges, then a geometric pattern inside the frame; there is something vaguely familiar in the shape and look of the thing, but Ignis can't, for the life of him, connect it to anything – or rather, to anyone.

His soulmark, his soulmark, his soulmark – it's all he can think of as he tumbles out of bed, as he reaches for his glasses, as he returns to studying the pattern in the hopes of recognition alighting in his mind. Nothing comes to him, and slowly, step by halting step, he makes his way through his morning routine, every second or two or three returning to the mark on his arm.

Before the mirror, when he's wearing a sleeveless undershirt but not much else, Ignis pauses. Even when he presses his wrist against his waist, the black lines still peek out where his arm narrows into knobby bones and green veins. Ignis swallows, tries to return the heart in his throat to where it belongs in his chest, but isn't quite successful.

His soulmark, his soulmate, _his soulmate_! The smile on his face is so goofy Ignis nearly forces himself to wipe it off, too afraid of impropriety even in the protective restraint of his own apartment, but – the more he stares at himself, the sillier he looks, yet he can't look away. His hair is dishevelled, his shirt untucked, his face unwashed and unmade – yet he's _happy_ , perfectly, utterly, entirely happy in the way that has his eyes shining with wetness and his cheeks tinting in warmth.

His soulmate...!

The mark offers him no clues over his soulmate's person or identity, and though the flavor of disappointment sits on his tongue, Ignis can't bring himself to be wholly upset over it. If he has a mark on his arm, then someone else will be bearing his mark in turn – and how he wishes to see it! His mark on someone else's skin, declaring them his soulmate, his other half, his to love and cherish for all of eternity. On the mirror, Ignis smile grows wider and goofier until it's all teeth and lips stretched thin, and then he laughs, fingers digging into the black lines crisscrossing over his wrist.

There's a mole stuck in a corner between two lines, and already Ignis has decided he loves that one mole more than any others on his body. The ever-present timer at the back of his head is already telling him to hurry, that though it is his birthday and his mark-day it is also a schoolday and that he has classes to take, papers to return, exams to sign up for – yet despite the threat of eight hours of lectures hanging down on him, Ignis can't let go of his arm. He can't look at anything that is not his wrist, his soulmark, or the mirror and the sheer joy on his normally calm face. How could he, when he now has what he has been taught to await from the moment he was old enough to understand the marks on his parents' arms...!

In the end, Ignis has no choice but to continue with his morning. As he does, as he turns away from the mirror and heads for the closet instead, as he forces all normalcy to the top of his mind, as he thinks of his schedule and his homework and the cake he won't be baking himself – reality starts to crash in. In the closet, Ignis pauses with his hand on the sweater he's debating wearing, and looks down at his mark.

It might not be easy. The vague sense of familiarity Ignis experiences when studying the geometric design on his arm is easily explained away as him drawing on the connection between him and his soulmate, whoever they may be; it is entirely possible he has not seen the pattern anywhere after all. A hollow void squirms and pulses in the pit of his stomach as Ignis thinks of his soulmate, a faceless shapeless person, and wonders if the mark they bear will be enough to guide them in. If they'll find each other today or tomorrow, or a month from now, a year from now, or if their marks will remain mysteries until a date so far in the future Ignis can't bear to think of it; or if they'll run into each other in the hallway outside his apartment. He wonders if his soulmate will accept his duties and his loyalty lying elsewhere, or if they'll expect him to attend to them and them only.

Ignis chooses his sweater and pulls it over his white shirt. He fixes the meticulously starched collar and tugs at the sleeves, already a little too short on him. He gets his coffee and his breakfast and his homework for the day, sits down at the dining table with it all spread out before him and tries to focus on the history of Lucian law instead of the pulsating mix of dread and hope making its home where his organs are all supposed to be. When the time comes for Ignis to pack his bag and to leave for his classes, he takes his campus parking permit and leaves.

Despite the shortness of his sleeves, the mark isn't visible, yet Ignis feels it burn; he can almost see the shadow of its outline through two layers of fabric.

* * *

Gladio notices the mark as soon as he reaches for his phone, and freezes still despite the blare of his alarm making his ears ring. There's a mark on the inside of his right wrist, on a stretch of skin that was bare mere hours before, but which now boasts a picture his shocked brain can't yet begin to decipher. The alarm bleats on in the background but the sound is distant, as if coming from the next room or another building completely; Gladio's ears are deaf to it. All he has left are his eyes, his gaze roaming over the minute details of the shrub painted on his wrist. Too asleep still to think clearly, too shocked to even pretend to understand, Gladio studies the different types of plant matter on his skin, the twigs with leaves so tiny they barely exists, the stalks with larger leaves of several kinds, the string tying it all together–

His mind knows the answer. It jumps to the conclusion and lands squarely, securely, the answer growing clearer and clearer and clearer even as Gladio himself tries to think of the name of the thing, the word used to describe a bunch of herbs tied together – and then his part of his brain catches up with the automatically functioning half, and he remembers the date and the words _bouquet garni_ and Ignis and it all–

It's Ignis.

His soulmate is Ignis.

Distantly, Gladio is aware of a smile spreading across his face; he sits up slowly, unwilling to tear his gaze away from the herbs in fear of them disappearing on him, and feels his entire life slot itself in place. His soulmate is Ignis, whom he already knows and trusts and treasures, even if the last word is a realization just as new as the morning is, and Ignis will be easy, because Ignis is already not just in Gladio's life but in Noctis' as well, and – it all comes together, puzzle piece by puzzle piece, and Gladio laughs in gleeful shock as his thumb rubs over the smooth ink on his wrist.

Ignis.

It's Ignis. It's Ignis-it's Ignis-it's Ignis-it's-Ignis is the mantra that runs through Gladio's mind when he finally turns off the alarm, when he holds his phone and stares at the lack of phonecalls and messages; it's the mantra running at the back of his head when he gets dressed for the day, when he touches the mark, when he thinks of Ignis with blackened wrists that may or may not offer a clue over his identity, and it's the mantra that follows him through the entire day. It's there when he eats breakfast, when he heads for the campus, when he dwadles in the lobby hall praying to see Ignis in the one spot where their days cross each other, and it's there when he – with shaking fingers and a bursting heart – types in a message and asks Ignis for a ride home after classes, because if Ignis hasn't contacted him yet then Ignis doesn't know, and Gladio – it's Ignis, Ignis, Ignis, Ignis is all he hears.

It's a miracle that Gladio makes it through the day. He's late for two separate classes, absent-minded in them all, and his notes are spotty at best. He fails a quiz he studied for. The teachers that call him to answer their questions receive no answers. Seconds tick on and turn into minutes, then into hours, into classes and mornings and then, finally, the entire day, and still Gladio can't wait. The last minute of the last class of the day feels just as long as the day itself has been, he has no patience, no interest, can't focus on anything other than the bouquet of herbs on his wrist; he needs Ignis, _now_.

Ignis is already in the car when Gladio slides in. He greets Gladio with a curt nod, a how-do-you-do, and Gladio tells him happy-birthday-bud in response, the words mechanical and as automatic as the slow ba- _DUM_ of his heart.

Ignis really doesn't know; Gladio had assumed as much early in the morning, when he had woken up to soulmark but no new words on his phone screen, but it's – it doesn't _hurt_ , exactly, but it leaves him anxious and desperate all the same.

When Ignis reaches for the steering wheel, his sleeves slip down just so, yet nothing new is revealed; only the thin wrists of a man barely out of his latest growth spurt, but Gladio can't look away. His mouth his dry and before he knows it, his fingers clamp around Ignis' right wrist.

Ignis looks at him, startled, not knowing, not understanding; more annoyed than anything else.

”Is it this one?” Gladio asks him. He can't look Ignis in the eye.

The silence is transformative; something changes between them. Gladio can't look away from where his fingers circle a wrist possibly bearing his mark, possibly the twin of a wrist bearing his mark, and Ignis – is quiet, thoughtful, tense in Gladio's grasp, until–

–he lets go of the wheel, simply loosens his fingers and falls into Gladio's hold, and though no words are spoken Gladio knows his permission and nearly sobs with the intensity of it all. He twists in his seat so can take Ignis' wrist between both his hands, tender as if cradling a baby bird, and – with shaking, trembling, non-functional fingers – undoes the silvery cufflink, folds back first a woolen sweater and then the shining-white shirt sleeve.

The mark is large, and Gladio recognizes it as soon as he sees the bold lines. The top two corners are all he needs and he snorts a laugh, grins up at Ignis when he feels the muscles twitch under his fingers.

”I take it you recognize it, then,” Ignis says – he sounds a little faint, stupefied, but not horrified at all, and Gladio feels like crying.

He doesn't. ”It's my mom's old family crest,” he murmurs instead, uncovering the rest of the mark so he can trace the lines with the tip of his forefinger, ”from when Accordo did away with royalty and the nobles all had their crests redesigned. Mom used it in her ad libris stickers.”

There are precious few of the stickers left, now, and though Gladio knows he could have more printed, he doesn't think he can.

”I did think it familiar.” Ignis' voice is so soft, so quiet, so tender. ”I could not place it anywhere, however. I – would you mind?”

His fingers probe at Gladio's left wrist. Wordlessly Gladio offers his other arm, makes to tug up his sleeve only to be halted by a cold hand.

His skin is easily bared. Gladio watches Ignis' face rather than the small shrub of herbs on his wrist, because the hours between the morning and the now have already been long enough for him to study it all. The wonder, the joy, the surprised awe on Ignis' face is something he will only get to experience this once.

”Took me a moment to remember what that thing was,” Gladio says. His face hurts from smiling too wide, too long. ”Almost couldn't believe it when my brain finished with the math.”

”Indeed.” A long, stretching silence. ”Gladio, I – I am glad it is you.”

Gladio looks at Ignis eyes and sees nothing but raw honesty behind the thin glasses. His gaze slips down to Ignis' lips and remains there until a hand pulls at his arm, or until he pulls at Ignis' arm, and what happens next is nothing but the most natural thing in all of creation.


	3. midday sun

That he has two soulmates rather than just one is easily the most shocking revelation Ignis has ever walked into. He sits on the edge of his bed, glasses askew on his face, and stares down at his wrist where a fish skeleton swims between the familiar bars of Gladio's mark.

He _knows_ , of course, what it all means, but knowing alone isn't enough to wipe off the stupefied blankness buzzing about his brain. It is Noctis' nineteenth birthay and there is a new mark on Ignis' arm, a fish and a skeleton all in once, and as scrambled as his brain is, Ignis can still add one and one and one together to get three – three clues and three people, he soon realizes, and feels his cheeks puff out with gleeful chuckles. So – Ignis knows, because the math is so base the solution is presented right along the equation, and – he knows.

He didn't think there'd be others, but Noctis is not a bad person to be soulmates with. Ignis swipes a finger across the carefully shaded fish bones and smiles in full fondness; if there had to be a third, then Noctis is as good as they ever could get. The trust that exists between Ignis and Gladio exists between them and Noctis as well, and they already share their lives if not intimately, then by the virtue of being bound together by duty alone. Ignis-Noctis-Gladio works out just as well as Ignis-Gladio did, and though there is a touch of melancholy in the air – the timeline has split in two now, into before and now, into Ignis-Gladio and Ignis-Noctis-Gladio – Ignis can't bring himself to regret a thing, to miss a thing, because what will change will still be the opposite of a tragedy. There will be new things required of them all because the Crown is what the Crown is, but–

–Noctis.

Never in his life has Ignis so much as considered this a possibility, yet even as he watches the mark on his arm, he finds himself unable to think it reality. There's a still picture of a fish skeleton swimming on his wrist and it's all he needs to know to understand its significance, yet – it's so much, suddenly, to have two soulmates instead of just one! Even as he gets out of bed and starts on readying himself for the day, Ignis can only think of Noctis, his charge, his life, his _soul_ , now, and – it's so much!

It's too early to call Noctis, yet, and though Ignis wouldn't be surprised to hear the other had gotten an early start to the day – it is the dawn of his nineteenth, after all, and not many would prefer to sleep through that – that there are no new calls on his phone is enough to tell Ignis that the new love of his life is still asleep.

Ignis doesn't mind, not really. Though he knows himself ready for the next step in his life, it's nevertheless a lot to take in, and – for one last time, he needs and desires a moment to be Ignis-Gladio, and so he calls the first of his soulmates while digging through the kitchen cupboards for the ingredients to make a cake for the second one.

* * *

Gladio's heart swells and blooms to a size so gigantic it's drowning out the rest of him. That he gets a second day like this is an unexpected blessing but not one he'd decline, and so – under the mounting threat of the day ahead of him – he takes his time examining the fish that has joined the bouquet garni on his wrist. Like the twiggy herbs, the bones appear almost too delicate on the expanse of tan skin they cover up, so small that he can barely make out all the details. There are hours and hours of studying ahead of him, but though he stretches the moment as long as he can, in the end he can only concede – those hours are not yet here.

In the kitchen, Gladio meets his father. The shock brought to him by Ignis' phonecall and the sight of a new mark on his skin has left him for the most part, but where it previously existed, a new kind of numbness is steadily taking him over. So, when he walks into the kitchen one arm wrapped around his wrist as if it were Ignis' nineteenth birthday once again, and sees Clarus – whom he thought already out of the house – the moment stills and grows and transforms into a realization long before Gladio can find the words to explain a thing.

Clarus' eyes are huge. A long silence passes during which Gladio stands frozen in the doorway, fingers splayed over the marks he now bears in plural, but then Clarus smiles – a little wet, yet very proud – and takes a tentative step forward, then two, then three, until Gladio unfurls the tense twist of his body and holds out his wrist.

There is a lot Clarus could say over the matter, but in the end, he seems to be just as lost for words as Gladio himself feels. The watery smile never leaves his face, however, and soon a sun alights behind Gladio's ribcage and forces a grin on his face as his heart picks up speed once more.

”It's been a while since our family was honored so,” Clarus murmurs, eventually, still holding onto Gladio's arm but now lifting his gaze up, ”a few centuries, I'd believe. Gladio...” Gladio nods, because he understands, but Clarus continues all the same. ”I am so proud of you – and happy as well, by the Astrals, am I _happy_ for you...”

He trails off; not to hide, but because there simply isn't anything else in need of saying. Seconds later there is a pair of arms around Gladio's shoulders, pulling him close, and as embarrassing as it is, he still leans into the embrace. The last time he and his father hugged was on the day of Ignis' nineteenth birthday, and Gladio's not yet so grown-up he'd turn one down.

Noctis is his soulmate, now, not just his charge or his liege, but a part of his own being, and Gladio is already as full of love as he was the day he refound Ignis.

* * *

Noctis stumbles into his nineteenth birthday in the sleep-addled haze of a man resisting the call of the day, but warm and soft as his bed is, eventually sleep can do nothing but relinquish its hold on him. Like every other morning, he starts out slow and sluggish as if wading in syrup, but eventually a spark lights up in his brain and his eyes fly open, watery against the strain of sunlight already pooling in. Mouth dry and heart fast enough to be concerning, Noctis rolls around to his back and crawls into a half-sitting position, and then, just before he's done moving around, he catches a glimpse of a black stain on the inside of his wrist, and–

–there are no words to describe the intense swell of emotions as he rushes to twist his arm around, and even less so when his eyes settle on a geometric framework and a bouquet of herbs, both marks he already knows. Here he stalls, his heart in his throat and his brain reeling to catch up with it all; he has two marks on his arm, and though his heart fills with unimaginable joy at the sight of them, tendrils of despair and fear still find their way in.

Gladio and Ignis are already together, and have been for such a long time Noctis can hardly remember a time when they weren't a couple. They have their own things and their own norms and their own life, in singular, and now – he's supposed to enter it all? To fit himself between the two of them? To ask them to rearrange their entire lives around him as if they hadn't already done that and so much more? Noctis stares down at his soulmarks, runs his thumb across the lines – some bold and brave, the others too subtle to be seen at one glance alone – and laughs.

Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, not entirely out of joy, not entirely out of pain either. Now that he thinks about, there is no-one in the world he'd want by his side more than he wants Ignis and Gladio – here a treacherous voice whispers into his ear about two dear friends, one close and the other far away, whom he'd still have been satisfied with – but if it is not them then Ignis and Gladio – he _loves_ them, _has_ always loved them, Ignis who took care of him and Gladio who protects him, but–

–they've already given him all they have but their souls, so how could he possibly ask for more–

–but he doesn't have to. He won't be doing any asking, Noctis knows, because if he has been marked then Ignis and Gladio will both bear his marks as well, whatever they be, and so the decisions have already been made. Swallowing tears and laughter alike, Noctis watches the way the branches of Ignis' cooking herbs entwine with the thick lines of Gladio's whatever-it-is and wonders over the shape his own marks will have taken, feels fondness swell between his ribs.

The wait feels like hours and seconds alike. Gladio and Ignis arrive at the same time, one bearing a bag of presents and the other a plastic dome containing a cake, and Noctis hovers in the doorway to his bedroom while the two others hover in the doorway to the living room, and they stand at an impasse until Noctis sobs and Gladio crosses the floor striding.

It's not the first time adult-Noctis has been hugged by Gladio, but it's close. It is, however, far from being the only time they've been at such close quarters, and so the thickness of Gladio's arms should come as no surprise to Noctis, yet it's what happens all the same. He feels arms wide as logs settle around his shoulders, and then he's tugged forward, and when he looks up he sees Gladio gazing down on him with wet eyes and smiling mouth, all of it so fond Noctis can't bear to face it so he looks for Ignis instead, sees him set the cake container down and sees him wearing an expression near identical to Gladio's, and if he can't look at Ignis then he can only look at Gladio–

–Gladio, who is still smiling down on him, soft and content and so full of love. Noctis' face heats up like he'd cast a fire spell over it and he has to tuck it against the safety of Gladio's chest, where he can hide from everything including the kiss he could just see coming but didn't think himself ready for, and if he lets out a distressed sound when one of Gladio's hands leaves his back, then no-one will ever speak of it, not even himself, because seconds later he feels the press of Ignis' body against his back and knows this heaven.

* * *

By the time Prompto arrives with gifts and a happily grinning balloon in tow, Gladio, Ignis, and Noctis have settled into something that is more than they had the day before but which is not what they will have the day after, or the week after, or the year after, when the awkwardness and the newness will all have melted away. For now, hoever, it's enough that they are on the same page, on the same skin, carefully brushing each other's marks with goofy smiles and whisper-like giggles almost too soft against the strictness of their life.

When Prompto arrives at the apartment, Noctis greets him with an expression half a smile, half a grimace, and the two friends halt in the hallway as one struggles to explain that he's got his soulmates, now, but that won't change a thing in their friendship, and the other rushes forward with worry spilling from him lips and shining all-too-bright in his eyes. Gladio and Ignis are a little deeper in the apartment, both of them watching, both of them smiling, both of them nervous.

”What's wrong?” Prompto tries to ask, eyes searching all three of his friends for answers they won't give him, and Noctis still struggles even when frantic hands grab him by the shoulders, ”what's wrong? Did something happen? Oh my gosh, guys, what's going on–”

In the end, Noctis has no words but he has the proof, and he tears up his sleeve and thrusts out his arm for Prompto to view, and so the silence falls into the room. Prompto taken aback, Noctis scared, suddenly, even though he has no right to be because why would Prompto get upset anyways, but if the fingers grasping his palm are a little too soft, a little too intimate – soulmarks are not for touching, not without a reason – if they settle a little too close to the black ink, then Noctis won't complain. Not when a blindingly wide grin splits Prompto's face in two.

”No!” Prompto gasps, because he knows Gladio's arm after days of sparring in the Citadel training halls, just as he knows Ignis' arm from long hours spent bent over a stove or a sink, ”no!”

Despite the words, there is nothing but pure amazement in his voice, in the wet twinkle of his eye, and slowly, the three soulmates start to relax once more. Ignis chuckles with his chin held low against his chest and Gladio grins, swings his arm on the back of his seat, and Noctis – Noctis smiles, too, bright and joyous, and forgets about all else.


	4. falling dusk, part I

To claim that Prompto has never entertained thoughts of a relationship with Noctis would be a lie; he doubts there's a single person in Noct's immediate vicinity who wouldn't have thought of it, if not seriously then in the form of those random thoughts that brains like to toss in the air, those out-of-nowhere what-if scenarios that make people balk at their weirdness and blush at their own outragiouness. So, it's not _too_ ridiculous of Prompto to admit to himself that yeah – he has thought about it. The chances of him and Noctis ending up together are already low enough to be as good as impossible, seeing as he's fairly sure his best friend's dating options are his marriage options which are either a soulmate or an arranged marriage (or, if history books are any clue, both), so it's a safe scene to imagine when he's alone and weak and unwilling to live in reality. The thoughts make him warm and guilty both, so he tries to keep from them, but – sometimes he fails.

* * *

He learns of Ignis and Gladio fairly soon after first befriending Noctis, but while he sees them from afar a couple times, their paths don't cross till after the two have woken up to blackened wrists and a shared heart. That Ignis and Gladio are soulmates is something Noctis passes on to Prompto some weeks after the mark-day has passed, some weeks before Prompto gets to meet them properly for the first time, and he shrugs and grins and whistles at the news.

”Must be nice,” he says, thinks of black ink running on his other wrist as well, ”and, like, easy too, what with them pretty much being stuck with you for life, dude–”

His words are cut off by an elbow in his guts, but Noctis is smiling thinly, fondly. It's not a secret he's passed onto Prompto but something private all the same, a sign of trust and their fortifying friendship, and it's when they turn back to the TV screen and the character Noctis is guiding through a maze of traps and treasures that for the first time ever, Prompto's brain says, _hey_ , what if you and him–

* * *

Gladio's dislike of shirts is only surpassed by his dislike of sleeves, or so Prompto decides after yet another day of seeing the older man walk around the Citadel as bare as he dare. He displays his mark with pride, though his tattoo is what draws people's – or at least Prompto's – eyes first, and the first time he catches Prompto watching, he raised his eyebrow, braces his chin, and Prompto's horrified enough to consider sinking into the stone floors but somehow manages to paste on a grin while bounding forward with awkward fingerguns snapping in the air.

”That must've hurt so-o bad!” he gushes, coming to a halt next to Gladio, who huffs a laugh and relaxes, who rolls his eyes and twists his wrist so Prompto can see the mark not tattooed on, ”and weren't _you_ supposed to be the flower guy?”

He almost succeeds at dancing out of Gladio's reach, but soon his giggles fill the hallway while thick fingers dig into his hair. ”It's a bouquet garni,” Gladio says before letting go, and Prompto recognizes the word but doesn't know enough of the language to say anything about the pronunciation, ”I'll let you know.”

Prompto tears himself free with a pout. ”Whatever, Gla-di-o-lus.” He steps ahead while trying to pat his hair into something resembling order. ”Mr. Flower Man.”

Gladio rolls his eyes, again, but his eyes are a little too shiny, the crinkles by their side a little too deep, and the only thing on his face is love.

The happiness radiating from him is enough to make Prompto feel drunk.

* * *

Ignis is a lot more reserved with his mark, but Prompto catches glimpses of it all the same, when they're both at Noct's apartment at the same time and Ignis is doing dishes or kneading dough or sweating next to a blazing-hot oven. His heart thuds almost painfully in his chest when he steals glances at Ignis' arms, tries to not act too curious or too entitled or too much like a spy, but Ignis never hides from his gaze and over the time, Prompto grows bolder and less frightened of accidentally upsetting his new friend.

It's not really the mark he wishes to see, anyway. He remembers the expression on Gladio's face when they joked in the hallway, and the dozens of small smiles and shoulder claps and carefully proper touches he's witnessed between the two, and it's those he's yearning after, the open shows of love and adoration.

Noctis thinks him dumb and silly, rolls his eyes while pretending to gag on thin air, but every now and them, Prompto catches him doing just the same – watching, dreaming, waiting.

* * *

There's a mark on Prompto's wrist that is not a soulmark but a tattoo, but unlike a tattoo and like a soulmark, it stretches with his skin as he grows older, taller, larger, which makes it neither a tattoo nor a soulmark, which – is concerning, and scary, and so very abnormal–

* * *

On the morning of Noctis' nineteenth birthday, Prompto stares at his wrists – one bare, the other not – in flummoxed silence until he remembers how soulmarks actually work and bursts out in laughter so deep it brings water to his eyes. The incident, as stupid as it is, leaves him in a good mood that lasts till hours later, when he bounces into Noctis' apartment with cheap gifts and a brilliant balloon he simply couldn't pass without buying. What happens is–

Prompto worries over the possibility of something bad having happened, and is proven wrong. He looks at Noctis and Ignis and Gladio, now Noctis-Ignis-Gladio, and, to his ultimate shame, feels jealousy so thick he can only barely force on a smile. The congratulations spilling from his lips taste like poison and his heart threatens to quit on him when he wraps all three of his friends in hugs.

So what happens is that Prompto, who should be happy for his friends, instead covets their happiness, a crime for which he is punished on his own birthday two months later.


	5. fallin dusk, part II

Prompto wakes up with his breath frozen in his lungs and his body solid as the stone foundations of the Citadel, and for a long, long while, he can only lay still under the protective cover of his blankets and the stack of chocobo plushies that has, once again, toppled over the left side of his body while he slept. Heart thudding in his throat, he stares at the ceiling and the fading light of the glow-in-dark stars still marking the corners of the constellation painstakingly arranged by his father some ten years before, and – he feels fear. He feels hope and love and many many things too tangled to be mentioned, but most of all, he fears.

Today is his nineteenth birthday, and he's more afraid than he was on the morning of his graduation, on the morning before he enlisted in the Crownsguard, on the day he met the King for the first time. He's more scared than he's ever been in his life and it's all because it's his birthday, his nineteenth birthday, and today he will know if Noctis, Ignis, and Gladio are his soulmates or not.

He can't do it, but he has to, and so – he starts with his right arm and carefully sneaks it out of its hiding spot. His phone has been vibrating periodically for a while now, calls and texts already coming on, but Prompto can't use it without his hands and so he's not using it at all. He takes his right arm and looks at the wrist, at the not-tattoo-not-soulmark and the dark lines etched into his skin, and simultaneously breaks and becomes hole once more.

* * *

Across the city, Gladio sits up on his bed and glances at his wrists, the act a routine he follows every morning now – a chance to see the loves of his life imprinted on his on skin. There's the bouquet garni and here's the fish skeleton, and all is normal as can be, and so he has no excuse for the brief sense of disappointment sinking in his guts.

* * *

Prompto's right arm is what it was the night before: bare where it is not tattooed. He studies the barcode just to be sure, counts the numbers and the letters, tries to remember just how thick each individual strike was, and ultimately comes to the conclusion that nothing has changed. It's a relief because it eases some of the mindfuckery and confusion surrounding the mark, but also a dagger in his heart because it explains nothing.

His arm falls over the blankets like a log. Prompto stares at the stars and the streak of early-morning sunshine casting an orange glow on the ceiling. He takes his time, again, because he only has one arm left and whatever the answer, he doesn't know what he'll do when he reaches it. He knows deep in his mind that his friends are his friends only, not his soulmates, but still he wishes, still he yearns, still he wants what they have – a brilliant, _wonderful_ friend he is, trashing their bonds like this – but the hope lives on as long as uncertainty does, and Prompto isn't ready to let it end.

* * *

Ignis, of course, has been awake for a while now, and has long since settled his curiosity over the matter. In the past, he has seen the way Prompto tends to look at the three of them, soft eyes so wistful and wanting, but he has also seen the way Noctis in particular tends to look at Prompto and has, naturally, wondered. He cannot deny his own fondness of the young blond, nor can he pretend Gladio didn't feel the same, but for a long time now, their friendship has seemed like a promise of something more.

Not anymore; not really. Dating outside a soulbond is not unusual but Ignis can't see it happening no matter what kinds of feelings he thinks he has detected between his lovers and his friend, between himself and his friend, and so he rolls down his sleeves and tugs his shirt into his pants and goes on with his day.

* * *

Prompto cannot avoid the day forever, and eventually he has no choice but to bring out his left arm as well. For a heart-achingly sweet split second, he thinks he sees a mark on the inside of his wrist, but then he turns his arm over and realizes it was just a shadow casting shapes on pale skin, and just like that, reality crashes in.

* * *

At the Citadel, Noctis sobs into his palms.

He'd been so sure.

* * *

The day passes by. Prompto swallows his feelings and pastes on a grin as fake as the stars on his ceiling, and he keeps the mask on through the ”surprise” party his friends throw him. He accepts their gifts and the foods they ferry into his kitchen, then sneaks away for a second to call his parents, then returns to faking okayness. He sees Gladio clap Noctis' shoulder once and feels like he's going to die, both out of love and of hate, because he loves his friends but also hates himself for loving them. Who is he to ask for what they have, to ask for them, when they are already perfectly happy and fine as they currently exist – who is he to get in the middle of it all? Who is he to want it all for himself? Who is he to feel jealousy over his friends' happiness?

Still, the regret lingers. It's four days after his actual birthday that his mother is able to return home, and he only finds out when he walks into the house and then the kitchen where she's spreading frosting on a slightly lopsided cake he doesn't particularly love but which is too much of a tradition to be passed on.

”Dang,” she says when she sees him standing in the doorway, ”I thought I'd have enough time to get everything ready.”

Prompto snorts a laugh because he doesn't know how else to react. He's been living in a cloud since his birthday and the sight of a balloon and a packet of streamers does precious little to his foggy brain.

”Is dad here?” he manages to ask, eventually. His mom shakes her head.

”Couldn't get away yet,” she says, visibly apologetic, but Prompto's used to it. He's an adult now. ”He'll be here this weekend, though. Too late for the cake, but that's his shame, eh?”

She chirps and grins and turns back to ladling sweet vanilla frosting over the chocolate cake, and all Prompto can do is nod mutely. A question, one last ray of hope, has been knocking at the back of his mind since the very morning four days before, but he isn't sure if he should ask, if he can ask, or if he should just learn to let go – but as is usual, his mouth makes the decision for him.

”Mom,” he says, and she turns around instantly, no longer smiling, now worried, ”do you think – is there – is there any chance my birthday might have been wrong?”

It's not impossible, nor is it even that unusual; there are children born to parents who do not wish to have children, children left at the frontsteps of churches and hospitals, but also children adopted, children lost, children orphaned... all of them children whose date of birth is anything from an assumption to an estimate to a lie, and if Prompto were one of them–

–if he were–

–but his mother smiles at him, sad and heartbroken, and shakes her head. ”No, Prompto,” she says, already understanding why he's asking, ”they – they said it's correct. It would've been in your papers if there was _any_ doubt over the date, you _know_ the laws–”

”Yeah,” Prompto swallowed, no longer able to look her in the eye, ”yeah, I know – I – I gotta go–”

And with that, he spins around and marches upstairs to his room, where he sits on the edge of his bed and presses his face into his hands. When his mother enters the room a few minutes later, he still hasn't been able to let go of his hatred of himself, of his disgust at himself, and the gentle softness of her arm wrapping around his back is enough to bring him to tears.

”I wanted it to be them,” he cries, as if he was a little kid once more instead of a man of nineteen years of age, ”I wanted–”

”I know, darling, I know,” his mother whispers into his ear, ”I know.” She pets at his hair and shoulder as he dissolves into full sobs. ”I know you wanted them, but if it's not meant to be, it's not meant to be. I know it hurts now, by the Astrals I _know_ it, but one day you will find your own soulmate and then it will all be alright. I promise, Prompto, I promise. You will find them and it'll be so much more perfect than anything you've ever dreamed of before. I promise.”

Through the stinging salt of his tears, Prompto sees the poison ivy climbing around her wrist. ”Do you think,” he sobs, choking on snot sliding down his throat, ”do you think–”

He can't finish his words but his left hand finds his right wrist and that's enough of a clue, or at least he hears her inhale and exhale slowly, torturously.

”No, darling, no,” she pleads, as if she knew the barcode and its significance any better than he does, ”no. It's not that. It's – they just haven't had their markday yet, because they're not nineteen. It's the wait, darling, I swear that's all. Someone's always got to be the older half, you know. It's all fine, darling, I know it hurts now but it will all be better–”

She keeps on with her hushing but the pain in Prompto's chest doesn't recede no matter how hard he cries or how deep in her neck he burrows his face.

He wanted them so bad.


	6. stroke of midnight, part II

When the lunch break is called, Gladio watches as the King's Council dissolves into yawns and stretching arms, a quiet chatter replacing the previously booming voices full of authority and power. The winter holidays and the long Cosmogony break have left everyone brimming with energy and dedication, though by now, a full month into the new year, it's all starting to wane once more. To his left, Ignis sits turned to Noctis and Regis, and to his right, the secretary is hastily scribbling down the last of her notes. Gladio lets his eyes span the lenght of the four tables arranged in a neat square, then leans back and excuses himself.

He doesn't need to go, but he's tired of remaining seated and the chance to visit the bathrooms is the only escape he'll have before the meeting is declared over, and that blessing is still a good few hours away.

Gladio takes his time getting to the bathrooms, then taking care of his business, then dawdles over to the bathroom sinks and studies his face while absent-mindedly tugging up the sleeves of his shirt. The winter is colder than any he remembers, and each bared inch is enough to worsen the chill even he feels. The days are dark and short, too, and there's just this general feeling of absence in the air, of melancholy and lack, that Gladio can't pinpoint. His relationship with Ignis and Noctis has transformed into something comfortable and casual, the worst of the corners smoothed into rounded surfaces, yet–

Hot water splashes onto his hands. Still staring at the mirror, Gladio holds his own gaze and fills his lungs with enough air to make them feel about to burst, then releases it all slowly, then fills them again, and as he feels for the soap pump, he glances down just in time to see something strange. Something new. Something out of place and out of ordinary and out of the wildest, most shameful dreams, because who dare dream of a man when one already has one for each arm–

On his wrist, entwined with the cooking herbs and the skeleton fish, is a dandelion.

Gladio doesn't know how to react. He doesn't know what the dandelion is – he knows – or where it came from – he knows – or when it came – _this_ he really doesn't know, actually, and he certainly doesn't know how he never noticed it getting dressed, but – what? He can't. The ability to function has left him. The water no longer scalds the tips of his fingers where the stream still hits him, but the fly-away droplets on his arm are cooling down, as is the wet trail his thumb spreads over the dandelion, the roots and the leaves, the thick stem, the little sun on top of it all.

He knows what this means, but–

And all of sudden, there is no more time for thinking or dawdling. He snaps the tap shut and dries his hands fast as he can, then runs out of the room and into the hallway, an excited grin widening across his face because even though he wasn't supposed to dream, wasn't dreaming, he now has it all because he has Ignis and Noctis _and_ Prompto–

In the meeting room, his father and Regis and Noctis and Ignis, but also a few others lingering around the edges. Gladio pauses in the doorway, breathing harder than he has any right to after such a short jog, and all eyes are on him and him alone as he leaps across the floor to where Ignis and Noctis still sit.

”Gladio?” his father asks, but Gladio has no time to spare for him.

”Guys,” he says, voice breaking already, ”guys–”

All eyes are on him when he unveils his arm and the third mark on his skin, and then on Ignis and Noctis as they hurry to bare their own arms, and then on Ignis as he stands up and tosses his binders on the floor with an enraged scream that paints his entire face red, and – Gladio didn't think it would come down to this, he really didn't, and he really wasn't dreaming as much as he was occasionally entertaining an idle thought. Prompto is something Noctis has always wanted, even though he has never spoken it out loud, but he is also something Gladio has never minded having around, and so the idle thoughts have all been fond as well.

”He's _adopted_ ,” Ignis cries out, both hands in his hair, and Gladio twists to him so fast he misses the look Regis and Clarus share, the one that says _but I thought we had the date correct_ , and _maybe it was for something else_ , and _the possibility of it being wrong should've been in his adoption papers_ , and then _but we faked those_ –

* * *

Ignis' heart is still beating fast as the feet of twenty-five Crownsguard trainees stomping through their laps around the training grounds, their breaths fogging up the air around them and their sniffles so loud that nothing in the world could drown them out. The main group is far away from where Ignis stands, shivering in just his coat, but the winter gear they wear would on its own be enough to make indentifying the trainees impossible, and so he heads for the Marshal instead.

”I need to borrow Prompto,” Ignis breathes. Cor's eyes turn to him, colder than the winter.

”Then you should try looking elsewhere,” he says, and, ”I sent him home already.”

The answer is so unexpected it takes Ignis a moment to translate it into something coherent. ”Pardon?” he almost squeaks, eyes still raking the trainees in search of Prompto, and he regrets his choice of clothing so deeply but not the hurry at which he ran outdoors, ”what was that again?”

Cor is not humored, and were Ignis in a better state of mind, he'd have noticed as much before he even walked up to the man. But Ignis is lost to the dandelion crawling the frame of Gladio's mother's family's crest, to the leaf hiding a section of the skeleton fish, and so all reason is lost to him.

”I said,” Cor repeats, eyes boring into Ignis' very soul, ”I sent him home already. His head was someplace else so I told him to go find it before someone got hurt.”

This – is not information Ignis had been expecting to hear, partly because he was so sure Prompto would be out training as he was supposed to be, and partly because Prompto isn't someone to struggle in training, because Prompto is already beyond the level at which he trains, because Prompto enjoys the life he has signed up for – and so Ignis wonders, tries to make sense of it. Has Prompto grown ill, is there something wrong with him? Or could it be he has noticed new marks on his arm, the first of the now-four to face the truth of their bonds – but why not come to them, in that case? Why run and hide?

Cor's next words bring Ignis back to planet Eos and the frigid winter around them. ”His head's _been_ someplace else,” he says, not one bit happy and a whole lot disapproving, ”for some months now.”

Ignis counts back to Prompto's birthday – not-birthday, not anymore – and wonders. He should explain the problem to Cor now that it's finally dawning on him, but he has little words, only the rush of emotions – of love and adoration but brokenness as well – and the new flower blooming on his arm, the flower he would not have been surprised to see months earlier, but which he now thinks Prompto truly _wished_ to see, perhaps even _expected_ to see, and – his heart is breaking all over the shards of ice under his feet, because Prompto has been alone all these long, dark months.

”The marks just came in,” Ignis blurts into the wintry day, then watches Cor's eyes widen imperceptibly, ”I really must find him–”

”Then you ought to be looking elsewhere,” Cor speaks over him, then snorts, ”congratulations,” and then, ”tell him I will still be expecting him in my office first thing Monday morning,” and then he turns from Ignis as if to say the conversation's over, which Ignis supposes it is, and so Ignis can only walk back to two of his three soulmates empty-handed.

 _His head's been someplace else_ , Cor said, _his head has been someplace else_. Ignis feet slow down as soon as he's back inside the comforting warmth of the Citadel, then halt completely as his stomach eats itself into a hollow void.

Prompto has been growing increasinbly distracted as of late; Ignis certainly has noticed as much. He's been tired, almost cranky at times, so uncharacteristically quiet and restrained, and little by little, he's been cutting contact with the others. But – and here Ignis pauses, forces himself to acknowledge that he wasn't _entirely_ in the wrong in thinking everything okay – Prompto is in Crownsguard training, now, and working on the side to earn a little extra money, and that kind of a schedule is taxing not just in hours, but in energy as well.

So – it was not _wrong_ of Ignis to think Prompto simply tired and weary, but now he wonders, considers, weights coincidences and happenstances in his mind. His stomach is cold and heavy, his lungs tight as if bound in iron as he thinks back to what should have been Prompto's nineteenth birthday, the slow decline since then, Cor's words and Prompto's shrinking smiles. He thinks of his own feelings upon not receiving a third mark on his arm, of the disappointment Noctis had been unable to hide, of Gladio who appeared reactionless but who had walked into the Council hall wild and harried.

Ignis wonders.

(Still in the courtyard, Cor, too, wonders over the birthday that was not a birthday after all, over times when peace was still scarce and when babies were experimented on, over one mad scientist and his quest for a taboo such as one does not even dare think of–)

* * *

Noctis tears out of the car as soon as it slows down to a roll, then bangs his fists against the Argentum's door until his hands hurt. There's a fire burning under his heart, his veins are full of boiling water, he can barely breathe through the maelstrom of emotions storming in his chest, and the seconds tick on endless as the year as he hits and smacks with his palms, reaches down for the bell, keeps on making sound because Prompto-Prompto-Prompto-Prompto–

The door opens to a grim-faced Prompto halfway through an eye-roll, and all time halts as Noctis stares at his soulmate. The irritation on Prompto's face gives way to brows furrowing together in confusion; time continues to stand still around them. Noctis can't breathe, all of sudden, because Prompto is there before him but Prompto is barely reacting, still appears annoyed even after the surprise leaves his face, and for all he wants to throw his arms around the last of his soulmates and kiss him senseless, Noctis can't move, can't do anything but pant for breath and stare–

The sound of the car doors slamming shut startles him out of the thoughts, and in the blink of an eye, Noctis has pushed Prompto back inside the house.

”What the fuck, dude,” the blond grouses, trying to swat Noctis' arms from his shoulders, ”where's the fire?”

Noctis tries to speak but finds himself mute, so he shakes his head, pushes Prompto out of the entranceway and into the hallway. Ignis and Gladio are behind him, and soon thinning light precedes the click of the front door closing after them. Noctis' palms are on Prompto's shoulders, clammy with cold sweat and trembling with the force of his heartbeats, yet strong enough to withstand Prompto's attempts at pulling away from him.

”Prompto,” Noctis breathes, to which Prompto only continues to shake his head.

”I'm really not in the mood,” he snaps, still struggling against Noctis' hold, ”seriously, what's wrong–”

There's a sound like someone saying something, but Noctis only has eyes and ears for Prompto, who has dark rings under his eyes and whose lips thin into a white line threatening to disappear alltogether.

”Prompto,” he tries once more, but this time Prompto succeeds at twisting free, and Noctis steps after him, knows himself to be smiling when he grabs Prompto by the right arm, ”you don't know,” he says, digs his fingers into the thick fabric of Prompto's hoodie and pulls down–

”What the _fuck_ , dude–”

–but even with the sleeve down, there's the matter of another shirt, which Noctis also tugs down – he has to wrap the arm against his chest, now – Prompto struggles and spits out curses while Noctis fingers the clasps holding the bracelet flush against pale skin, and then there's a hand on Noctis' shoulder but he shrugs it off, too stuck in his tunnel vision to understand anything but the need to–

”This isn't fucking okay,” Prompto shouts, ”this isn't fun, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you dude–”

He tears his arm free, steps backwards once more, but Noctis is on a mission. With a strangled, frustrated sound stuck in his throat, he lunges for Prompto's other arm instead. Gladio's mark is so large that even with the bracelet covering most of the wrist, it would've been visible anyway, and so it's not the right arm but the left; determined to explain what is going on, resolved to make Prompto see what he apparently has not yet seen, he continues the battle.

Sweat prickles along his hairline and in his armpits. Prompto fights his hold hard, with the frantic, rapid annoyance of someone who is out of fucks to give, but Noctis maintains his hold. With single-minded determination, he tears down first the hoodie, then the long-sleeved shirt under it, and then time comes to a halt once more. Noctis feels it in the way Prompto falls lax in his arms, his reaction belated, numbed by – shock, surprise, Noctis can only assume, but soon they are both still, Prompto staring down at his left wrist and Noctis holding onto it with soft fingers and a blooming heart.

”It's you,” he whispers, tears in his eyes but a smile on his face, his shoulders jostled by Ignis and Gladio pressing past him in the narrow hallway, ”it's you, I _knew_ it was you–”


	7. a new dawn

They're in Prompto's living room, shuffled together as close as physically possible. Gladio sits in the very corner of the old sofa that's lost its firmness and now sinks into itself like a deflated balloon depressing under a weight, and in his lap is Prompto. Prompto's knees are up and resting against Noctis' chest, whose legs fight Gladio's thick thighs for space. Ignis started at the other end of the sofa, behind Noctis and holding onto Prompto's ankle with dainty fingers, but it wasn't enough, not for any of them, and so he retrieved one of the dining chairs from the kitchen and planted it between the sofa and the cluttered table overflowing with magazines and little everyday trinkets.

It's still not enough. Prompto can feel Gladio's heart beating a steady rhythm against his back, and he can feel Noctis' chest moving next to his folded knees, but it's not enough. Ignis' hands are warm where they hold onto him, one on his thigh and the other in the crook of his elbow, brushing the marks he still can't believe are there, but it's not enough. Prompto has all he has dreamed of for months yet he feels he's seconds away from dying.

Suddenly, he laughs. Gladio's fingers stop their dance on his soulmarks, and Noctis looks up at him, but it's Ignis who asks him – ”what?”

”I've been lying about my age all this time,” Prompto giggled, almost hysteric all of sudden. ”Shit, I lied in my Crownsguard application form–”

Three different degrees of laughter-snorts echo around him. ”Our little Immortal,” Gladio murmurs into his ear – Prompto can hear his smirk, even if he can't see it. ”Look at you follow-ouch!”

An elbow in the gut silences Gladio, but already there's something new squirming in Prompto's belly. Ignis is fast to reassure him that it's not his fault there was a bug in the system somewhere, and Noctis just laughs while Gladio coos an ”aww, baby” into his hair. There's still a hollow feeling in Prompto's chest, one he's been crading and cocooning since the dawn of his not-birthday some months before, and still he feels as if its about to swallow him hole – but it's not alone anymore, because now he feels the giddy seedling of something warmer taking root in the pit of his stomach. He watches the marks on his arm, on Gladio's arm, on all their arms – each bared, each matching but never fully, each a promise to three rather than two – and feels a heart on his back, sees a smile at his front, listens to a voice on his left – and it's not enough, not yet, but he thinks it might one day be just that.

* * *

Prompto's parents, when they next arrive in Insomnia, listen to the explanation with paling cheeks and horrified eyes before tearing through the entire house, gray-faced and grim-lipped, but no – the papers are what they are, and Prompto can't say if his parents are relieved the mistake wasn't theirs or enraged that it was made in the first place. They face the three of Prompto's soulmates on a Sunday afternoon when rain is drizzling down from the skies and when the scent of blueberry muffins baking in the oven fills the entire house, and were he not so focused on the webbing forming over the gaping maw in his chest, Prompto would feel embarrassment. His parents have met with Gladio once, have spoken to Ignis twice but seen him sitting in a car in the driveway far more often than that, but Noctis is as good as part of the household already, having spent more than one night sleeping on the hastily made futon on the floor of Prompto's room.

Prompto sits at the crowded kitchen table far too small for six grown adults and smiles awkwardly at the conversation flowing around him. Under the table, the fingers of his left hand wrap around the bracelet on his wrist, the not-tattoo he now knows the secrets to, just as he knows his birthday is the first of February, not October 25th.

* * *

When Prompto steps into Cor's office on the Monday following his markday, Cor appears a lot less disapproving than he would have expected; this does not save him from a curt, grim lecture on honoring both his classmates, teachers, and the Crownsguard as a whole by actually taking care of himself and at least pretending to be interested in his duty. Prompto sits on an uncomfortably padded chair and stares just past the tip of Cor's left ear, tries his best to not fall apart.

Cor is scary on a good day, but it's the feeling of having disappointed him that has Prompto swallowing tears and swearing to the Six he'll do better in the future. When the lecture ends a short few minutes later, he draws in a deep breath and pastes on a shaky smile that falls away as soon as Cor slams a stack of papers on the desk.

”Sir...?”

”Sign these,” Cor says, holding onto Prompto's gaze, his own saying nothing, ”if you want to know more about that barcode.”

Prompto almost doesn't. It's too sudden, too abrubt, his life has been tossed this way and that far too many times in the past few days alone, and he's starting to grow tired of not knowing which way to face in the mornings. He almost doesn't because even if he's spent all his life yearning for the truth, he suddenly thinks he wants anything but it.

He signs the papers.

”Are you familiar with Verstael Besithia?” Cor asks while gathering the stack back together, blue eyes glancing in Prompto's direction. Prompto nods. ”A few months after the peace, a joint operation between Lucis, Nifflheim, and Tenebrae saw to his arrest due to charges of human experimentation, as you are likely aware of.”

Prompto nods, again. His high school history book had a picture of Besithia's face next to a short description of the crimes he'd been arrested for, all of them unspecific yet monstrous enough to leave a lasting impression. He can't remember which grade it was but the picture was on the center edge of the right-hand page, next to heavily highlighted paragraphs about the last years of the war.

He doesn't like where this is going.

”He was experimenting on soul marks,” Cor explais after a brief pause, then stops once more. The air is heavy in the room, the dark of the walls almost blurred in Prompto's eyes. ”Besithia was trying to find a way to force a bond between two separate individuals.”

That's a taboo if Prompto has ever heard of one. ”What about–” he manages before losing his voice. ”Where do I–”

”Unlike some of the crimes he committed during the war, these experimentations were made on newborn babies.” Cor huffed a wry, humorless laugh. ”As a result of the war, the orphanages were full of those – no-one noticed if a child or two went missing. After the operations, we–”

”Were you there?”

Prompto can't say what exactly prompts him into asking the question, but after a brief moment of stunned silence, Cor's expression softens, and all of sudden Prompto feels just a bit more alright.

* * *

They don't really make beds large enough to fit three grown men and one half-giant, but that's not much of a deterrent when they're in a cuddling mood, or a slightly less innocuous pre-cuddling mood. Noctis, Ignis, and Gladio all have their own rooms at the Citadel, and though Prompto still lives with his parents, he, too, has been promised a grand apartment of his own.

As usual, Gladio and Ignis lay at the edges of the bed. Ignis because he has food in the oven and Gladio because he's so large that the poor unfortunate soul stuck behind his back would have been cut off from the others, and punishment via banishment is not a thing any of them are into. Prompto doesn't mind sleeping behind Gladio's back (though sometimes the snores feel like an earthquake and sound like a motorsaw ripping next to his eardrums) but when they're trying to talk about things? No.

It's been some months since his markday; the sweet warmth of late spring has given way to a heat of a more oppressive kind. The AC in the royal quarters functions spotlessly yet Prompto is almost too hot nestled in Gladio's hold, a vast chest draped over his back and a heavy arm reaching across him and Noctis alike. Despite the heat, though, it's nice to lay out like this – soft in a way that leaves him warm all the way down to his bones, but also familiar. There is nothing strange in cuddling anymore, or in kissing, or in laughing or sobbing out one's pleasure; just an increasingly familiar sense of wholeness.

He's still not fully okay, though. He knows he will be, one day; he feels it in his bones, in the beat of a heart against his back, in the fingers splayed with his own, and in the green eyes smiling down at him over a mop of black hair. Noctis is smiling as well, loopy with love and happiness, and though Prompto can't see Gladio's face, he can feel the laxness of his body and see the way his palm curls over Noctis' hip; his arm isn't long enough to reach over Ignis' body as well, but Ignis makes up for it by resting his arm next to Gladio's and wrapping his fingers around a tanned elbow.

Prompto isn't okay. The short months between his and Noctis' birthdays were long enough to leave their marks, and there are mornings when he wakes up sure of having dreamt this all. The darkness he fell into was steeper than he'd noticed at the time, the hurt of being separated from his soulmates a pain like nothing imaginable, and so – he's not okay. But one day he will be, because one day he will be able to believe this the truth.


End file.
